Where the gold dome meets the dusty bricks, I am reprimanded for wearing shorts. I begrudgingly pull my long beige skirt on over them–the one with the huge chocolate ice cream stain from earlier in the day. I watch: people crying, wailing, people praying, people, like me, not knowing what to do really. Years later, I will learn what it all means: the gold colliding with the wall like a spiritual duel. The Dome of the Rock and the Western Wall–just names–but Holy ones of remembrance nonetheless. Me, I can’t even recall what I wrote on that note in the crevice; I wish I could reclaim that prayer, make it count, make it matter, rewrite it like this history of stubbornness.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Beautiful!
Thanks, Neha!